


Kitty Jail

by Anonymous



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Electrocution, F/M, Sadism, The Handler is a Bad Person, Torture, inevitable reflection on the Age Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26379841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Handler has Five, for the moment.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/The Handler (Umbrella Academy)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63
Collections: Anonymous





	Kitty Jail

The _teen_ thing was entertaining as hell.

The Handler understood Five as a proud man in the beginning, but she had not anticipated that his stubbornness would cause him to cling to his humiliating side effects like they were their own badges of merit. He had rejected the new body, albeit indirectly, which she had been ready to give him with all the magnanimous energy of a woman ordering a round of shots for someone outstandingly pathetic, but he just _had_ to go and pepper the place with explosives in a misguided self-righteous rage.

“ _ **Agh-”**_

In her opinion, he blamed her for far too much, but even he knew that the _teen_ thing was his own fault.

Personally, she had wanted him eye-level again, yearned for the feeling of having him polished and seeing him emerge glorious, like the first time she brought him home to the Commission. It felt like the gratification that volunteers felt when they took oil-covered animals and scrubbed them until they transcended, reborn in a soapy baptism.

“ _ **N-gh-”**_

She remembered when Five had first reported in for work, with his crisp suit lines and impeccably groomed mustache. It had not escaped her that he still carried himself like a wild animal, detached yet alert. They had a civil conversation, and he was cooperative, if firm on the grounds that he would not work a single second beyond the bounds of his contract. Something, something, _family,_ sure. She had offered him a cigarette and he had refused.

Really, if you thought about it, this was his fault.

Now he was a gracile little traitor, immaturity written on every inch of his body.

It made her want to punish him.

It made her want to _cuddle_ him, the defiant little thing.

If that face had been on any other somethingteen-year-old she would have left them to bake in the flares of the apocalypse. It was the _soul,_ the electricity that animated Number Five that made him compelling in all his forms, the _mind_ that made his eyes wild.

Perhaps that was why-

“ _ **AaaAGH-”**_

Perhaps that was why she had been feeling a bit more _experimental_ than usual, speaking of electricity.

“How are you feeling, Number Five?” She asked, pressing a button and rigging the answer.

Five made a sound that he couldn’t repress if he tried, screaming through his locked jaw. He was strapped to an old wooden chair, and the electricity made him jerk against it.

It was _so_ cute.

His hair was mussed and his jacket was off, clearing the way for the little electric sticker-pads snaking up his sleeves and down his open shirt collar. Weak blue ripples swarmed around his hands, but they would not be enough, not with him like this. At least once per second, a randomized jolt was set to interrupt both his internal and external focus, keeping him from gaining traction in space and time. She had him chased around a lavish shopping centre earlier, letting him feel very clever as he wore himself out picking off some of the lowest performing employees at the Commission, just to burn out his batteries.

She made a show of turning the dial for the automatic shock down, the satisfying _click-click-click_ absorbed by the soundproof walls.

“Well?” She urged, smoothly.

Five breathed roughly, for a time. He swallowed, audibly, and spoke.

“ _...I Feel like I made it to third base with an electric fence.”_

It was lovely, how he still found it in himself to bite out the words in perfect hate, even as his voice reached new levels of gravel.

“ _Mmm,_ there’s an image.” She purred, watching him regret giving her anything at all.

On his left side, his sock had fallen a bit further down than the right one. She eyed them both openly. On anyone else, such a thing would be unremarkable, but in the context of _proud_ little Five, just two inches more of exposed skin felt delightfully perverse. It lit her from within.

“ _Fuck, off,”_ he panted, allowing his words to slur a bit more with the simpler phrase.

“You know, Five, you bring out the youth in _me_ as well.” She brushed the front of the remote control as though it were an extension of his body. “You bring me back to my childhood, when I used to play _kitt_ _y_ _jail_ with Duchess Buttercup’s kittens.”

“... _Born twisted.”_ He breathed, slumping involuntarily from the exhaustion inflicted on him. 

“Maybe so.” She replied, and pressed the button as playfully as she would boop his nose.

“ _ **AKH-”**_ He made a choked noise, fingers tensing along the edge of the armrests. He didn’t have much meat on him to dig into, but the straps holding him in place created dynamic folds along his uniform as he twitched and strained against them. The pain made him sweat, which was a shame, because it made it harder to see if he was crying.

The Handler sighed, smiled sweetly, and wondered how long she could drag this out for.

She felt she could do this for a _while._

He’s going to grow up to be a handsome gentleman, she would know.


End file.
